


Waves (Calm My Mind)

by euhemeria



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [66]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-23 21:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18710197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euhemeria/pseuds/euhemeria
Summary: In the distance, she does not hear gunfire, or much of anything at all, and were it not for the ache in her bones from having knelt with her rifle all day, she might forget entirely, slipping into the warm water of her bath, that she has known war at all.  This is peace, as much as Ana is allowed such a thing.Or,Ana has an evening to herself to unwind.





	Waves (Calm My Mind)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luuluu5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luuluu5/gifts).



> provided i know how time zones work (that is admittedly NOT a given) it's luu's birthday right now!!! happy birthday luu!!!! here is some ana solo action for u....

Although no one ever asks Ana what she thinks of her job, and she could not, contractually, be honest in her reply if they did so, privately Ana believes that she _does_ like her job, that they do good things, and the people she surrounds herself with are good people, and that the exhaustion of it—the constant combat, the high stakes, the regrets and the politics—is, ultimately, worthwhile.  Certainly, she has often thought that Overwatch would be more effective if only they were allowed to act on their own discretion and to stay for as long as they needed to actually stabilize a region, rather than spending all of two weeks in a warzone and expecting their intervention to be lasting, but this does not mean that she thinks that the work that they do is not worthwhile.  Yes, she also finds the constant infighting between her superiors that she is expected to moderate to be tiring, and fruitless, and she finds that far more is demanded of her by her superiors and those under her command alike, emotionally, than is asked of any of the men she works with, but despite that, she knows that those she work with are all dedicated soldiers, and they all are genuinely trying to do what is best with what they have.  And maybe her job is tiring, maybe she feels like she is running on empty more days than not, but the work that she does is important, and fulfilling, and it is not like she is not allowed time to rest, now and again, is not as if there is no means of stress relief available to her.

Not that Ana can discuss stress with anyone on base.  Other than Doctor Ziegler, who is obligated to ask about such things, and obligated, too, to report them, most people on base seem to take it as a joke, saying _stress relief_ when they really mean intercourse.

(Naturally Ana has no objections to sex, but she already has a daughter to remind her of the potential consequences of using that particular method of relaxation, and while menopause means that she hopefully does not have to worry about that any longer, she also is not at all inclined to enter into a relationship just now.  Too many of the people she works with report to her directly, or are otherwise far too emotionally entangled in her life already to even consider a relationship with, and casual sex is usually off the table for similar reasons.)

Ana loves her job, really, she does, believes in her cause and in the work that they do, and cares about her coworkers, too, but at the end of two weeks in the field—which, really, she is getting too old for, but cannot bring herself to quit—she does not want to see or to speak to _anyone._

So sex, the preferred pastime of soldiers the world over, is off the table. 

(Most of the time, anyway.)

Instead, Ana spends as much time as she can taking care of _herself_ on the nights she returns from the field.  Now that Fareeha no longer lives with her, it is all but guaranteed that Ana’s evening will be interrupted, and so long as she is on time to work in the morning, she can do as she pleases.

Sometimes, this means going for a run.  It used to be that she and Jack would do that together, and even before that, she Jack and Gabriel, oftentimes in silence, but occasionally pausing to vent some frustration or another to each other.  Nowadays, she finds the both of them to be exhausting—not individually, but together, with the way that they fight, and expect her to arbitrate for them, or worse, pick a side—and anyway, she no longer has the energy she used to, and works out as much as she needs to stay fit in the field, but not too much more, because when she gets back from a week of being shot at, and the adrenaline wears off, she is _tired,_ and sore, too, more often than not.

When she is truly frustrated, or angry, she does not let that exhaustion stop her, takes out her anger on the mats with anyone foolish enough to spar with her, or unfortunate enough to be caught with poor form, but she knows that with the scrutiny Overwatch is under, now, that she cannot do so as often as she used to, cannot allow her feelings to show.

(Never mind that Jack is so obviously frustrated, and Gabriel so brooding.  What is expected of a woman is not the same, she knows, and if she were ever anything but what the media wants from her—reassuring and serious at the same time, a mother and a commander at once—then too much would be read into it.  Being stressed or angry publicly is more trouble than it is worth.  Those feelings she transforms into sadness, about the state of the world, and what it is she is not allowed to do about it, what might have been, if only they were not so restricted by the UN, because sadness, at least, is allowed to her, and easily hidden, too.  If she weeps at a funeral, no one will know that her tears are for more than only the one who died, are for an entire generation lost to warfare.)

Most of the time, all she does is this: she returns to her quarters as soon as she is done debriefing, and cleared by medical, if necessary, removes her shoes—neatly, although her inclination is always to kick them off—unpacks her bag, and draws a bath.

It is one of the perks of being an officer, having a private bathroom, and as one of the highest ranking members of Overwatch, she has been granted a bathtub, too.  Funny to think that she sees it as a luxury, now, when it is not particularly large, and has only the one spout, so different from the arrangement in the house she once owned, before the Crisis, when she thought that she would retire from active duty at thirty or thirty-five, and live out the rest of her days in relative peace with her husband and child.  Nevertheless, it _is_ a luxury, in her eyes, is so much nicer than the conditions she is accustomed to in the field. 

She enjoys it more, for that simple fact.  When she dips her hand into the water to check the temperature, smells the candle she has lit burning, and knows she is safe enough to close her eyes, if only for a moment, to let her guard down—it is exquisite, in a way that nothing else could be.  In the distance, she does not hear gunfire, or much of anything at all, and were it not for the ache in her bones from having knelt with her rifle all day, she might forget entirely, in that instant, that she has known war.

This is peace, as much as Ana is allowed such a thing.

As efficiently as she can, she removes her uniform, and folds it, too, years of habit overriding her desire to submerge herself immediately, sets it to the side and checks the temperature again before adding salts to the water and allowing herself to finally, _finally_ sink in.  The bathtub is not big enough to sink in entirely, but if she leaves her knees pointing upwards then she can comfortably lie on her back with her head underwater and then—

 _Silence_.

No one needs her, no one calls her name, she is alone—and blissfully so.  Her hair tickles the side of her face, where it is floating, and she tries as always to capture that feeling of weightlessness, that peace, to internalize it so that she can bring it with her, wherever she goes, that she might be able to feel that calm when she needs it most, rather than merely masking her upset.

Just before she can catch it, just as she thinks she understands it, that feeling, just as she imagines that it might be something that is truly for her to feel, and not an illusion granted by the water, she has to breathe out, and just like that, it is gone.

(She always breathes out right before a kill.)

Trying not to cough, to splutter, she jerks up, takes a burning breath as air hits her lungs yet again.  If she wanted to, she could submerge herself again, but she thinks _Why try_?  Whatever it is she feels, or thinks she does in those moments, it is not real, is only her instinctive response to the water.  That sort of tranquility is not for the likes of her to know, and now that she sits up she sees the way the water is just slightly discolored, stained by the dried blood on her scalp.  Best not to sully her bath any more.

Still, it is relaxing, even if she does not allow herself that escape, the heat from the water seeping into her joints and easing the ache, and she rubs at sore muscles as she lathers herself.  It is not a massage from a lover, but Ana thinks she rather likes this better, knowing that she can soothe all her pains for herself. 

There is a sense of normalcy here, too, that so often evades her.  Is it peace?  No, but she will not scoff at this piece of civilian life, at this moment in which her time in the field feels so far removed.

Right now, she has naught to do but wait, and relax, enjoy this moment and let the water and the salts restore her body.  If she were another sort of woman she might read a book, but such a pastime has never held much appeal to Ana.  Poetry is nice enough, she supposes, but only in small doses, and she lacks the inclination to read a novel.  What could possibly be more entertaining than the sort of life she is already leading?

She could also do a facemask, or shave her legs, but both of those leave her entirely to alone with her thoughts to relax, not to mention that such a beauty regimen seems pointless when she never can keep up with it in the field.

(Ana cares about her appearance, of course, wants to be seen as a woman by the people who surround her, even as her career and many of her personality traits render her decidedly _unfeminine_ in the eyes of society at large.  So she wears makeup regularly, and she thinks herself beautiful, but for many people it does not offset the seriousness of her countenance, the sharpness of her tongue, the confidence with which she carries herself.  Nevertheless, whatever disconnect from femininity is projected upon her by society at large is not true—Ana _likes_ to feel pretty, she simply does not have the time or inclination to do so many of the things society demands women do in order to earn that label.)

Instead, Ana returns to that old joke among soldiers— _stress relief._ Something to occupy her hands and her minds both.

Not sex—that is messy, in so many different ways—but taking care of herself.

(It is better, like this, to know that she need not rely on anyone for anything, that she can please herself, in every sense of the word.  This way, there are none of the dangers of being entangled with other people.)

Just for this purpose, Ana keeps a vibrator on the shelf of her bathtub.  Brazen, perhaps, but who will see it?  This is her personal quarters, and she never entertains visitors.  It is a small thing, a bullet, bright pink, but otherwise entirely utilitarian in design, and stronger than any of the other toys she has owned—useful, as she finds the water changes the sensation, somewhat, diffusing and slightly dulling even the most pinpointed vibrations.

 Could she use her hands and avoid such a thing?  Certainly, but she is trying to _relax_ , and using this saves her the effort, allows her to simply sit back in the bath, throw her head over the edge, and wait for her toes to curl and for her whole body to finally untense, enough so that she might sleep for the night and feel somewhat rejuvenated in the morning.

And that is exactly what she does.

Well, not so efficiently.  If she wanted efficiency she would not be here, in the bath, trying to take time for herself.  She _can_ be efficient, and quiet too, is perhaps _too_ used to swiftly and stealthily masturbating whilst sharing a tent with other people, but this is her _home_ , such as it is, and there is no need for that, now.

(Home is a stretch, but if Headquarters is not Ana’s home then where is?  Not her condo in Egypt, untouched for several years, and not the house she bought with Sam, before the divorce.  Where else could home be?  Not the field, surely, and not the training mats, nor the trails she runs.  If not here then—the end of her scope?  She would prefer to think not.)

She starts the vibrator on its second lowest setting, enough to tingle pleasantly, to tease, but not to be overwhelming, and she runs it over her body first, a teasing touch at the most sensitive parts of her skin, the insides of her thighs, the skin just above her hips, the undersides of her breasts, all the places a lover might stroke, if she allowed them.

When she does so, she tries not to think about anyone in particular, not her ex-husband, handsome and considerate though he was, not her first lover, a woman with grey eyes and a voice to match, and certainly not the most recent one, a friend who would have better remained that way.  Instead, she abstracts the motions, thinks of _a hand_ on her skin, any hand, and hopes that this time, it will not bleed into anyone as time passes.

(Too often, it does, and she is left with a feeling of guilt, of regret, of longing for something—someone—who once was, and never will be again.  Not a lover, but her former self.)

What she pictures is this: a hand slightly darker than her own, and far gentler, no callouses from holding weapons interrupting the smoothness of their fingers.  She imagines, too, closing her eyes and kissing them, whoever they are, the light through her eyelids darkening as they lean down to kiss her, their hair a curtain cutting her off from the world.  Closing her eyes is convenient—she does not need to picture a face.  If she brings the vibrator up to run over her lips, gently enough not to bump her teeth, she can experience that just-kissed feeling, lips tingling and swelling slightly in response.  It is a little thing, but easily done, and sometimes it is the small things which sell a fantasy.

From there, she brings the toy down to her breasts, turns up the vibration slightly, feels the strange tingling as she uses it to toy with her nipples.  This is nothing like a lover would do, not remotely the same as a mouth at her chest or hands pinching and pulling, cupping and kneading, but it is nice, in its own way, and sometimes Ana does not want anything more than that, does not need realism.  It feels _good_ , and she does not care, beyond that.

After she is done with that, and it does snot take long, teasing herself until her nipples tighten and stand out in response, she brings the vibrator lower, to the outside of her labia.  Her other hand she moves to replace the toy at her chest, and she tries to picture herself as a lover would.

What does she look like, like this?  Head tipped back, long greying hair framing her face, eyes closed—but not screwed shut, yet, she is not nearly close enough for that—and mouth open as she makes soft noises.  Rarely does Ana have the time, the luxury of indulging in sensuality, but like this, she is confident about how she looks, how she sounds, is certain that if anyone could see her like this, they would be pleased by the view.  Perhaps her breasts hang differently now than they used to, and perhaps the weight on her hips has redistributed itself a bit, in the past few years, but she is still as strong as ever, and there is something to be said for the view, her normally serious expression and posture replaced with this, a look of pleasure, one hand at her breast and the other between her legs.

Imagining what it would be to see herself does far more to arouse Ana then the gentle vibrations of the toy between her legs.  It is not the image itself, exactly, because her body is not what is exciting her, it is the headspace, the ability to imagine herself as a person who is desirable and has desires. 

(It is not something she ever thought would be hard.  Once, she might have been considered sexy, a combination of her body, her laugh, her confidence, but now—society does not love older women, and she tells herself that that is the problem, that she would still easily find herself beautiful if only she lived in a world that found beauty in her. Her reality is far more complicated; it is difficult to find herself beautiful when she knows that it is an ugly thing that she does for a living, has done, will continue to do, is hard to think that she is deserving of that sort of attention when she has taken so much from so many.  But with time, a little effort, and the right environment, she can still find herself worthy of being desired, can imagine that someone might want her, if only for her body.)

She bumps up the vibration of the toy two notches at once, and is grateful that the soundproofing of her quarters is good—the water amplifies the noise, and the vibrator, although billed as discreet, is not quite so.

Neither is she, when she finally brings it up to circle around her clit, draws a groan from her own throat.  If she wanted to, she could be silent, but it is nice, to hear herself, is just another way of being grounded in the present, and knowing that _this_ is where she is now, and this is what she is doing.  The rest of her life could not be further away, in this moment.

It is different, the way her body responds to arousal when she is in the bath, is a unique experience, the way that it builds, so differently from when she is in bed, or with another lover.

Normally, by this point, she might be sweating, might feel heat under her skin, but the water has faded to be cool against her.  She might, too, fist her hands in the sheets if it were someone's mouth on her clit and not a toy, or might hook her ankles around their shoulders for purchase.  Here, she can do neither, is floating, floating, unable to build her orgasm by conventional means, to lock her muscles and to toss her head.

If she kicks, the water will splash, and she does not want to make a mess, wants to leave the water as still as she can, no indication of the frenetic energy building beneath.

(Ana is good at that sort of illusion, at maintaining a semblance of calm when the reality is that she feels anything but.)

Gradually, the feeling builds inside of her, the arousal, and if she were not in the bath, she might use her other hand now, might penetrate herself, because it is better that way, for her, even if that alone is never enough, but she is resolved to relax, to do as little work as possible, not to tighten the muscles in her thighs or rock her hips into any sensation, not to chase the orgasm but let it come to her.

But she can picture it—a lover above her, one hand supporting themself and the other brushing her cheek, moving a stray hair away from her mouth, them on top of her and inside of her as she tends to herself with her hands.  She does not let them coalesce into a person, not anyone she knows or ever a beautiful stranger, leaves them like that, all feelings and impressions and the knowledge that they _care_ , that they think she is beautiful and want her to be happy, to be comfortable, to enjoy this.  That is enough to make it real for her, and if she focuses on that, on the idea of a lover, she can feel it, as if they were indeed here.

(It is much better than having a real lover, who might not know her preference, who would either have to care a good deal about her already—a messy entanglement—or otherwise be somehow _too_ invested in her, in a way that she is not comfortable with.  As much as Ana wants to be cared for, and wanted, she does not want as much from strangers, or people with whom she is not exceptionally close.  It is, in fact, hard for her to accept such concern from anyone these days, no matter how much of a right they have to care about her emotional wellbeing.)

It is good, is more than just good, and she lets herself sink into the feeling, lets her mind drift further and further from the reality of who and where she is, and into some other time and place, where she has someone to come home to, someone who knows what it is she must do, and does not mind, someone who sees all of her and still accepts her as she is—loves her for that, even.  Such is not her reality, but it is a beautiful fantasy, and somehow more arousing than imagining the sex acts she might perform with this imaginary lover.

Though she does imagine those, too, imagines them telling her to be still, pressing her down against the sheets, and her, helpless to resist them, obeying in a way she would never be comfortable obeying a real lover.  There is something appealing about the idea of powerlessness, of giving over responsibility for herself, even good responsibilities, such as her own pleasure, to someone else.  None of it is appealing enough for Ana to allow anyone to ever _actually_ do such a thing with her, but in a fantasy, where she is safe, where she does not feel that constant sense of danger, that need for control, there it is an interesting thing to explore, the idea of giving over control to someone else, if only for a short while.

And what would she let them do?  What would she allow?  It does not matter, for her imaginary lover never really tests her limits, beyond telling her to wait and to let her orgasm wash over her, rather than to be so proactive, as she always is.

So wait she does, even though she feels it building, begins to tremble even as she tries her hardest to relax.  When the urge to pull her legs closer together comes, she does not give into it, lies as still as she can, focuses only on the feeling, the tension and inevitability of it.

(She focuses, too, on that which she cannot truly feel, her lover inside her and their hand against her cheek.  Staying still is useful for more than one reason, as she does nothing that could break the illusion she has created.  Movement surely would, the lack of resistance or the feeling of cool porcelain against her face when she went to lean into her lover's hand.  Better to just allow this to happen, to do nothing other than wait, rather than risk ruining this.  Inaction is an action, in and of itself.)

It builds, and it builds, and she has to turn down the intensity of the vibrator for a moment, because it is too much for her, in that moment, close as she is without quite tipping over, and she lets herself have a moment of reprieve, two, before she pushes the intensity back up again, thinks that this _should_ be enough, that she has come from less, but she just cannot quite get there, cannot relax into the feeling as much as she would like, and finds herself still frustrated.

She is close, _so_ close, can practically taste the orgasm, the tang of blood in her mouth as she bites her lips.  If she could only let herself let go...

But this is the problem, the letting go, it is not something she is good at literally or figuratively, allowing herself to relax into something, and for it to wash over her. She needs to have that choice, to act in order to push herself over, needs to be in control.  To be out of control is to be in danger, and a liability, neither of which is acceptable.

Or, that is what she feels, as she nearly comes again, only to be overstimulated and turn the vibrator down, again, feeling the orgasm slip from her grasp.  It is not the sort of thing one can _rush,_ if they are truly intent on letting things happen to them, without acting, and she wants to rush, even knowing that it defeats the purpose of this exercise.

Resisting that impulse to act, the itch under her skin, it is difficult.  In her head, she urges her imaginary lover to increase their speed, to move faster, _harder_ , to make it count, and she presses the vibrator more firmly against her clit, thinks that perhaps if the vibrations were a bit deeper then perhaps it might help.

It does, but not for the reasons she intends, it is the act of requesting, of _asking_ , rather than demanding.  A vulnerable thing, and not something she typically does with lovers, whom she would rather be in charge of than listen to.

Yet asking feels _right_ in this moment, because this person, imaginary although they are, is willing to listen to her, to do what it is she wants, even if she does not compel them to.

(Never mind that any one of her previous lovers would have done the same.  In fact, many of them would have done more without her ever having needed to ask at all, but as Ana is now, she does not ever truly feel comfortable asking for things, particularly not when that involves asking of other people, and she would much rather her fate were in her own hands than in someone else's.)

What would it be like, to feel safe enough to do so, to know that she deserved to be able to ask for what made her happy?  That is overwhelming in a different way.

But the fantasy is strong, and she lets herself feel it, if only for a moment, lets herself fully relax, and does not shy from the ways in which it overwhelms her, embraces the ways in which it is too much, too much stimulation, too much emotion, too much inaction, dependence, and vulnerability, and then, _then_ she feels it, the inevitability of an approaching orgasm.

She trembles, and the water is disturbed by it, but she does not mind in that moment, if she makes of a bit of a mess, if she is somewhat less than perfectly neat, as is expected of her.  She trembles, she shakes, she feels it grow within her, her heartbeat speeding up and lungs not quite filling enough, and her eyes screw shut fully, back arching, toes curling, and she comes.

For all the fanfare, her orgasm is silent, save for the way the water splashes as her body moves in response.  She does not say anything, make any sound, for what is there she could say?  No one is truly here to hear her, and it does nothing for herself to add to the noise, when all her focus is on the way that she feels, the intensity of it, the loss of control.  Rather than washing over her, after such a long, slow build, her orgasm wrenches through her, and she does not want to miss a moment of it, strong as it is, wants to experience _everything_.

When she is done, she switches off the toy—abrupt, rather than gentle—and sits up as quickly as she can, given that there are still little aftershocks travelling through her body when she shifts just so, her thighs pressing together.

In another life, she might luxuriate in that feeling, in the warmth that follows, the sudden drowsiness, the sudden feeling of _safety_ that she practically never feels, but in this life she knows those things to be an illusion, a chemical response to something that was enjoyable, yes, but not something that could change the realities of her life.

Reality being this: that she is alone as she ever was, and is in fact happier that way.

(Reality being this: she is not safe, and she never will be again, not until she is dead.  There are people who would hurt her wherever she goes, and she might deserve it.)

Reality being this, she has no time or place for the sentiment which has overcome her.

She scrubs the tears which accumulated from her face, and stands, drains the tub and moves over to her shower, washing all evidence that this ever happened from her body.

It was an indulgence, an illusion, a fantasy, and nothing more.  This is her life, instead: a cold shower with mediocre water pressure in the middle of military base, no one to see her but her own reflection.  There is no time for sentiment, for vulnerability of any sort.  What people expect from her is that she is strong, that she stands tall, that she never asks anything of anyone, but is ready, still, to help everyone else.  That is who they want her to be, and that is who she _is._

A candle she forgot to extinguish burns down unnoticed as she finishes rinsing herself off. 

**Author's Note:**

> anyway... i love ana
> 
> title from 1d's fool's gold bc... yeah
> 
> lmk ur thoughts if u have them. anafucker rights!


End file.
